Eight year old Regan had unusual features; his jet black hair contrasted eerily with his bright white skin. Regan took pride in his unusually skinny body, and refused to ever fix his posture; he always hunched his head in front of his body.
Regan’s parents were extremely wealthy and busy. In fact, Regan rarely saw them. The young boy had spent his short life primarily in the care of housekeepers, babysitters, drivers, repair men, and secretaries. When Regan, at 5:30am, woke up and began his usual daily routine, there was always a new face to greet him. When he woke up, Regan would eat breakfast, pack himself a lunch and a dinner, make the thirty minute trek to the south dumbwaiter, and take the dumbwaiter to the floor of his choice and explore. At this particular time Regan was exploring floor G-4 (a little known floor under garage number three).
Regan’s house was enormous. There was no end to it. Even Regan, the explorer, had not come close to seeing the entire thing.
Regan had no friends, had no hobbies (other than exploring), rarely went outside (sometime his exploring would lead him outside), and absolutely HATED his caretakers. He did not think he needed a caretaker.
Although this is how Regan felt, no one would ever know. Regan was especially quite and would never ever ever say a word to his caretakers. If Regan’s daily caretaker interfered with his routine Regan would escape deep into the house.
It was December the thirtieth and Regan had just woken up. He monotonously entered the southeast kitchen and made himself some pickles and milk (not together…separate). Regan would always eat in the southeast kitchens because his daily caretaker would usually not know to check for him there. After about three minutes Regan’s caretaker walked into the kitchen. She was an extremely heavyset woman, wore all pink, and had an unusual amount of facial hair. She reminded Regan of a pig.
“Why, hello there Regan!” said the caretaker, “Why, Regan, you’re up early.”
Regan hated her.
“Why, Regan, my name is FERN!” said FERN, “Why, Regan, can you spell FERN?! F.E.R.N…FERN!!!”
Regan really really hated her.
“Why, Regan, want to play a board game?!” Fern screamed. “Why, Regan, how about the Game of LIFE?!”
Regan had never hated anyone so much. In fact, his whole body was starting to hurt. His hatred was making his body hurt. FERN decided to keep talking and Regan’s body started to hurt even more. Regan could not quite pinpoint what kind of pain he was feeling. It was not in his head, not in his bones, not in his skin, not in his heart, and not in his lungs. Then he found the pain. It was in his stomach; Regan was starving. FERN started walking towards him. Her decibel level was at 110dB, about the noise level of a power saw. As she got closer the decibel level reached approximately 125dB. The noise was starting to hurt. Regan started screaming and blacked out.
When Regan woke up it was nighttime and he was in a pool of blood. However, other than the blood that was slowly leaking out of his ears, the blood was not his own. Regan had eaten the fat pig that was FERN. It suddenly dawned on Regan that he was in the wrong business. Exploring was old and boring. Regan had discovered a new hobby… he had an everlasting supply of caretakers.
Eight year old Regan had unusual features; his jet black hair contrasted eerily with his bright white skin. Regan took pride in his unusually skinny body, and refused to ever fix his posture; he always hunched his head in front of his body.
Regan’s house was enormous. There was no end to it. Even Regan, the explorer, had not come close to seeing the entire thing.
Regan had no friends, had no hobbies (other than exploring), rarely went outside (sometime his exploring would lead him outside), and absolutely HATED his caretakers. He did not think he needed a caretaker.
Although this is how Regan felt, no one would ever know. Regan was especially quite and would never ever ever say a word to his caretakers. If Regan’s daily caretaker interfered with his routine Regan would escape deep into the house.
It was December the thirtieth and Regan had just woken up. He monotonously entered the southeast kitchen and made himself some pickles and milk (not together…separate). Regan would always eat in the southeast kitchens because his daily caretaker would usually not know to check for him there. After about three minutes Regan’s caretaker walked into the kitchen. She was an extremely heavyset woman, wore all pink, and had an unusual amount of facial hair. She reminded Regan of a pig.
“Why, hello there Regan!” said the caretaker, “Why, Regan, you’re up early.”
Regan hated her.
“Why, Regan, my name is FERN!” said FERN, “Why, Regan, can you spell FERN?! F.E.R.N…FERN!!!”
Regan really really hated her.
“Why, Regan, want to play a board game?!” Fern screamed. “Why, Regan, how about the Game of LIFE?!”
Regan had never hated anyone so much. In fact, his whole body was starting to hurt. His hatred was making his body hurt. FERN decided to keep talking and Regan’s body started to hurt even more. Regan could not quite pinpoint what kind of pain he was feeling. It was not in his head, not in his bones, not in his skin, not in his heart, and not in his lungs. Then he found the pain. It was in his stomach; Regan was starving. FERN started walking towards him. Her decibel level was at 110dB, about the noise level of a power saw. As she got closer the decibel level reached approximately 125dB. The noise was starting to hurt. Regan started screaming and blacked out.
When Regan woke up it was nighttime and he was in a pool of blood. However, other than the blood that was slowly leaking out of his ears, the blood was not his own. Regan had eaten the fat pig that was FERN. It suddenly dawned on Regan that he was in the wrong business. Exploring was old and boring. Regan had discovered a new hobby… he had an everlasting supply of caretakers.